


To Banish a Nightmare

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Gift Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, M/M, Nightmares, Post-His Last Vow, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, havetardiswilltimetravel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows all about bad dreams—from the inside, anyway.</p><p>Everything he knows about bad dreams from the outside is unfortunately due to Sherlock. These are things he’d rather not know, you see. The way Sherlock’s face, already ridiculously pale, is thin and drawn like tissue paper when drained of blood. The way Sherlock grimaces at the tremor in his hands, and worse, how the gradual sloping of his shoulders spells his resignation to this state of affairs. The way he refuses to wipe his tears away, as though to acknowledge them might somehow justify their existence. John doesn’t want to know any of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Banish a Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havetardiswilltimetravel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetardiswilltimetravel/gifts).



> For havetardiswilltimetravel.tumblr.com, based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges’ Valentine's gift exchange.

John considers himself an expert in nightmares. After all the horrors that have scrabbled across his nighttime landscape, he knows more about bad dreams than your average eight-year-old with monsters under the bed. A veritable choose-your-own-adventure of trauma lives inside his head. Wounded in battle? Here’s a coiling fever-haze of dust, blood, and bombs. Lost your best friend? Take a helping of shattered skulls with a side of cold sweats. Betrayed by the woman you love? Swallow down an assassin in a wedding dress and a massive dose of nausea.

John knows all about bad dreams—from the inside, anyway.

Everything he knows about bad dreams from the outside is unfortunately due to Sherlock. These are things he’d rather not know, you see. The way Sherlock’s face, already ridiculously pale, is thin and drawn like tissue paper when drained of blood. The way Sherlock grimaces at the tremor in his hands, and worse, how the gradual sloping of his shoulders spells his resignation to this state of affairs. The way he refuses to wipe his tears away, as though to acknowledge them might somehow justify their existence. John doesn’t want to know any of this. 

But that’s part of loving Sherlock. John takes everything the man gives—as prickly or appalling as that might be—and embraces it. So if Sherlock wakes screaming in the night, John is at his side, hushing and soothing, ready to talk until dawn or rock him back to sleep. 

When John first moved back into 221B, the journey to Sherlock’s side meant a perilous trip down the stairs through the darkened flat. A shout in the night would signal him, and he’d fly to Sherlock’s room as fast as his legs could carry him—life and limb be damned. It wasn’t a frequent occurrence, at least not as frequent as it would seem once they began sharing a bed. John suspects Sherlock’s nightmares haven’t grown in number; rather, he only ever knew about some of them. 

John doesn’t like to think about the times he didn’t hear Sherlock cry out in his sleep. 

These days, John is privy to all of Sherlock’s bad dreams, and to bring the man back to himself John need only roll over, put a hand on his shoulder, and whisper his name. “Sherlock.” He does this now, pulled blearily from his own sleep by a long, low moan and the subtle trembling of the lean body next to him. 

“Shh … It’s just a dream.”

Sherlock flinches violently away from him—knees to chest, face hidden—and John bites his tongue to keep from cursing. It’s a bad one, then.

There are times when Sherlock stirs and falls into John’s waiting arms before he’s fully awake. Those are the good nights. Other times, he retreats from any touch as though defending himself from a blow. From what John’s pieced together about Sherlock’s time away, this isn’t a surprising reaction. Brutal abuse in a Serbian prison will have that effect. Surprising or not, it still hurts.

“It’s me, Sherlock,” he tries again, but Sherlock only burrows in deeper.

How long will the false-impression linger, John wonders. How long will Sherlock confuse John with some nameless man wielding a thick length of chain or a tire iron? There are subtle clues that the dream is fading and Sherlock is swimming out of the fog—a quick inhale, a clenched fist, a quiet groan—but John can’t be sure. 

At last Sherlock uncoils himself and meets John’s gaze, and he is sure. But it’s cold comfort.

When they were kids, he and Harry were mucking around in the kitchen trying to make an omelette for their mum’s birthday breakfast. _I’m older_ , his sister said. _I’ll slice the mushrooms and you crack the eggs._ A few minutes into the project, Harry let out a bloodcurdling scream. It took a moment for John’s eyes to slide past the drops of red splattered on the cutting board and up to the raw horror of Harry’s expression. Right hand clutched around the deep gash in her left thumb, short, blunt fingers painted red, eyes wide and terrified and utterly vulnerable. They stood like that, divided by the kitchen island—frozen in shock—for what felt like eternity. In reality it was only seconds before instinct took over and John snapped into action, calling for help as he grabbed a towel and applied pressure to the wound (some talents people are born with, and keeping cool in a crisis is surely one of John Watson’s). It turned out all right, of course. Harry has all her digits, though she still carries a nasty scar. But that look, that overwhelmed, utterly lost expression is one John will never forget. And Sherlock is wearing it right now.

It says, _Help me._

It says, _This hurts._

It says, _I don’t know what to do._

In John’s mind, that kind of devastation belongs nowhere near Sherlock Holmes. Great men should not fall so low. Great loves should not hurt so much. So if he gathers Sherlock to himself a little too quickly, if he pulls him close until his face is buried in curls and Sherlock’s tears break hot and wet against his neck, it is both a mercy and an act of self-preservation.

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” he says over and over again, hoping repetition will make it true.

Sherlock’s gasping sobs rise to a crescendo, and John runs soothing strokes down his back. As the muffled cries carry on, he slots himself into the dips and spaces of Sherlock’s body, filling the empty voids with himself. 

“John,” Sherlock moans with a broken gasp. “Please.”

John shakes his head, chin brushing Sherlock’s crown, and angrily sniffs back his own tears. He will not fucking cry. Not now. Not when Sherlock needs him to be strong.

“Hey,” he says instead. “I’ve got you. I’ve _got you._ ”

He wants to kill the people that did this. He wants to rip out the throats of the men who beat and bloodied Sherlock, the men who left him with this fucking horror-show of memories that invade his dreams like a swarm of beetles. He needs to fucking _hurt_ someone.

Sherlock groans and shifts in his grasp, and John realizes how tightly he’s holding on. 

“Fuck.” He jerks back. “I’m sorry—are you okay?”

Perhaps he should have known better. Should have known what would happen if Sherlock detected even a whiff of pity. Their eyes meet, and like a twisted tap, Sherlock just turns off. He returns John’s concerned gaze with a tight smile. It’s all wrong. John tries another tack, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“I’m fine.” He sniffs and rolls onto his back, pulling away, pulling into himself, and John can feel his heart crack. 

Sherlock tugs at the sheet with a grimace and wipes his face dry. Expression carefully masked, eyes vacantly aimed at the ceiling, he looks like a different man. John knows what’s underneath, knows Sherlock only does this to protect himself. Still, he can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment that Sherlock still feels the need to hide.

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock says with a infuriating formality. 

John brushes his fingers over the empty space between them—inches stretched to miles. “Please don’t do this.”

Sherlock shakes his head, determined to see his course through. “Go back to sleep. I’m fine.”

Half a dozen comebacks flash through John’s mind—each one weighed and rejected. He settles on saying nothing, crossing the divide, instead, and reaching out for Sherlock’s chest. He strokes up the sculpted line of his neck and lands on the damp warmth of his cheek. Then with gentle firmness he tips Sherlock’s face toward him. He stares long and hard until, in bits and pieces, the artifice crumbles and falls away.

“I love you.” 

The only sign Sherlock has heard him is the subtle twitch of his lips.

“I love you,” John says again, wiping away a fresh tear. “This does not make you weak.”

He can see the protest in Sherlock’s eyes, but doesn’t make space for dissent. “Is that what you think? When I wake up screaming. When I reach out for you. That I’m weak?”

“John. No—”

“Okay then,” he says, rolling the soldier out, daring Sherlock to contradict him.

It’s almost funny, the conflict that passes over Sherlock’s face, the mental gymnastics he must attempt to argue opposition. In the end Sherlock gives up the fight and nods, the subtlest mark of ascent. John sighs, grateful. He wants to hug the man, but he’s unsure if that would be welcome. After a moment’s hesitation, he slides a leg between Sherlock’s knees, huffing a relieved breath when Sherlock leans into the connection. Sherlock trails a hand along John’s ribs, hesitant and then full of need. As they twine together, the lingering tension between them snaps back on itself like an overstretched rubber band.

John eases in and sets a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s jaw.

“I’m sorry, my love.” He punctuates each thought with another press of his lips. “I’m sorry for what those bastards did.” Kiss. “I’m sorry I can’t hurt them like they hurt you.” Kiss. “I … I’m sorry.” John holds his breath, hoping the tide has turned and they’ve pushed through the worst of it. 

And then Sherlock has to go and ruin it.

“Oh, shut up.”

John tenses, preparing for fight. Instead of pulling away, Sherlock tilts his head to brush his nose against John’s.

“If I’m not allowed to apologize, neither are you.”

John smiles against Sherlock’s mouth then playfully nips his bottom lip. “All right. Fair enough.”

He has no ulterior motive when he takes Sherlock’s mouth in a deeper kiss. He just knows he wants to give Sherlock _something_ , and this is the only thing at his disposal at the moment. After long minutes, the gentle slide of tongues turns eager, and he reads an invitation in the slow drag of Sherlock’s long fingers through his hair. Hands stroking softly, legs laced together, breath a mingled whisper, John feels enveloped by a lovely lazy warmth.

He rolls them, twisting in the sheets and settling between Sherlock’s open legs.

“This okay?” he murmurs, and Sherlock responds with a teasing nudge of his hips.

“It’s all fine.”

They snicker at the long-standing joke, a bubble of laughter that dies in their throats as their eyes meet. Even tearstained and sleep-rumpled, Sherlock is the most beautiful creature John has ever known. What was once alien and untouchable is now his—to hold and taste and love. He’ll never stop wanting to kiss those impossible lips or crush his fingers through that wild tangle of hair. He will never tire of Sherlock Holmes, and God willing, Sherlock will never tire of him.

“Jesus, I’m a lucky bastard.”

Sherlock smirks, ill-disposed to allowing anyone else have the last word. “I’m the lucky one. Idiot.”

John only smiles and dips his head to fulfill his mouth’s desire. Any final negotiations take place between breathless gasps, restless pawing, and the quiet rustle of sheets.

When Sherlock cries out—cheeks flushed, heart pounding, legs trembling—John lets go a sigh and thinks to himself, _There are worse ways to banish a nightmare._

**Author's Note:**

> havetardiswilltimetravel requested "John comforting Sherlock after a nightmare". Ironically, I have a larger piece in the works that starts in a similar way. Lots of bad dreams floating around - thank goodness John is there to comfort Sherlock.
> 
> Havetardis, thanks for the inspiration. I sure hope you liked it!


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